


Cooking Up A Storm

by psyraah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyraah/pseuds/psyraah
Summary: How to fix a bad day: a cup of hot milk, the Red-Crested Warbling Sparrow, and your boyfriend's favourite barbecue pork.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Epsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epsy/gifts).



> Tbh, there's not that much cooking. A very happy birthday to Getti. There is meant to be another thing coming but like....probably in the new year because I'm slow. I hope you like it. Thank you for being an always supportive friend in everything, and pretty much sharing all my fic preferences <3

Their front door slams open in the late evening, and Ed bounces out of his room and down the hallway.

“Roy?”

Roy Mustang is standing, bent over in his military blues. One hand is braced against the wall as he yanks of his boots.

It’s one of Ed’s favourite things—not Roy pulling off his boots, though that’s cool too, ‘cause it means that there are probably hugs and kisses soon—but being home when Roy gets back. That, or coming back to find Roy waiting for him. He can’t decide which. “Hey, how was work?”

Roy straightens and sighs, and that pretty much answers Ed’s question. There’s no greeting other than him spreading his arms open, and a quiet, “can I get a hug, please?”

Like he even has to ask.

“Hey,” Ed says gently as he approaches. “Dumb question.” And then he folds himself around Roy, and _squeezes_ tight.

The arms that wrap around him almost match his own squeeziness levels. Ed still hasn’t figured out if there’s a measure for it yet, but—like a fuck ton of other stuff in his life—the measuring stick is usually Roy. The person he talked to last week wasn’t as smart as Roy—about half a Roy. The hotel they stayed at two summers back made better breakfast than Roy, about one and a third times as good.

But when it comes to hugs, there’s nothing like a Roy hug. Actually maybe an Al hug, but Ed’s still trying to figure that one out. Either way, _this_ is another one of his favourite things (he’s allowed to have a lot): Roy’s arms super tight around his shoulders, Ed’s head pressing against the firm pressure of Roy’s chest, and the long, slow sigh that Roy lets out.

“You okay?”

There’s no answer, and then Ed feels Roy move his head next to him. “Was that a nod or a shake?”

“Not okay,” Roy says quietly, and it’s taken years for Roy to be comfortable enough with Ed to admit it.

Knowing that, Ed tightens his hold. “I got you.”

With Roy pressed close like this, Ed can hear Roy’s heartbeat, and the long breaths he draws as he tries to settle—in, out, in, out. But Ed still knows, from personal experience and from Roy experience, that tonight’s gonna suck anyway. So Ed will try do whatever he can to make it less sucky, because Roy not being sad is another one of his favourite things.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks, and kisses the collar of Roy’s uniform.

Roy shrugs. “I don’t know. Just…” He sighs, and groans, and holds Ed tighter.

“Yeah,” Ed agrees in solidarity.

“Bill for Ishvalan citizenship got blocked today on a technicality. And we’ve just been working for _years_ on it. It’s as if no matter how hard you work or grind away, it’s just—sometimes it’s just for _nothing_.”

“Hey, hey, no,” Ed says, and he draws back so he can look at Roy. Roy, who’s shaking in Ed’s arms, his bottom lip quivering, and Ed _hurts_ to seem him like this. It’s as though Roy’s trembling shakes its way through Ed’s skin and between his ribs, sending tremors in to break his heart. “Roy, Roy, hey,” he says softly, running his fingers gently through Roy’s hair. “You’re doin’ good. I promise. You can try again, and anyway, you like, raised awareness and stuff, right? It’s not just the bill, it’s all the support and shit behind it. You’ll get there.”

“But we’re just back at the starting line, and it’s just—it’s just _shit_ ,” Roy says, clenching his fists.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I just…I don’t know how we can do it all again.”

“You can, and you will,” Ed says firmly. “But not now. One step at a time, Roy. You’ll figure it out, yeah?”

Hesitantly, Roy nods, and pulls Ed close again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Ed kisses the tip of his chin. “Don’t be dumb. Have you eaten yet?”

“Enough,” Roy says, which actually means not enough. Ed’s been around long enough to translate that one from Roy-speak. “Didn’t feel like it, but Hawkeye forced some mess hall sandwich on me half an hour ago.”

“All right, how about you go take a shower. You’ll feel better.”

For the first time that evening, Roy kisses Ed, the barest brush of his lips across Ed’s hair. “That’s what I usually tell you.”

“Yeah, and you’re like, smart-ish. So. Go.”

“All right, all right.” But he hangs on to Ed for a little bit longer, and Ed lets him, because he knows how much having someone physically _with you_ can help. Besides, it’s not like he’s getting a raw deal—see aforementioned quality of Roy hugs.

When he does draw away, Roy looks a little bit less tense, though he’s still…deflated. It’s written in the slump of his shoulders, and the way his eyes don’t quite meet Ed’s for too long. “I’ll go do that then,” he says softly. He trails his fingers over Ed’s cheek, and then walks away. Ed watches him go, and waits until he can hear the squealing of their pipes before he pads into the kitchen.

Roy likes stir-fry, and hot food on a horrible day is always helpful, so Ed’s goal for the next ten minutes or so before Roy comes back is making a kickass stir-fry. He microwaves a warm cup of milk first—even though he doesn’t want to get anywhere near it, it’s Roy’s relaxing warm drink of choice on a stressful night, so Ed will have to suffer.

(“And they say romance is dead, Edward,” Roy had said the first time Ed had made the drink. Ed had hurled the cup at him with a snarl.)

They’ve been together for quite a while now, but it never gets any easier to see Roy struggling. It’s a privilege and also heartbreaking that Roy lets himself get this way with Ed, and it brings out the same determination and fire in Ed that had him saving mining towns and bewitched cities, and…well, known civilisation, really. And even though he doesn’t do any of that anymore, he still gets the same, warm, tickly heart feelings looking after Roy as he did looking after the world.

Maybe it’s ‘cause Roy is, for better or for worse, a really big chunk of Ed’s world now.

(And _that_ , Edward Elric, was as cheesy a thought as the man in question.)

It’s only after he’s got all the necessary ingredients laid out neatly on the bench, and a warm mug of milk on the table, that he notices their little salt jar is empty. Grumbling, he opens one of their upper cabinets to get their big container of salt so he can refill the little guy.

And, he realises in annoyance, Roy must have been the one to put it in the cupboard, because it’s on the highest shelf, _just_ pushed far back enough to be out of reach.

Really, does the man _have_ to make it so hard to spoil him?

He probably did it deliberately, Ed thinks, clambering up on the bench to try to reach. Ed growls in frustration when he _still_ can’t reach, and stretches further. Smug idiot probably put it there just to remind Ed of the couple of stupid inches he lords over Ed. It’s not like he’s even _that_ tall. He’s, what, the third tallest on the entire team? And then you consider that Fuery is tiny, and Ed _might_ be…below average, and really, Roy’s got nothing on _anyone_.

Jerk.

Stupid, tall-ish, idiot, who puts things _just_ far away enough so that Ed’s fingertips snag a corner of the container. After the first nudge, it’s that awkward gradual shuffle thing to bring the container ever closer to the edge, and if he can just—

—shit, it’s bigger than he remembered, and fuck, that’s _heavy_ , and his wrist twists the wrong way and his hand can’t get a grip—

“Shit!” With a yelp, Ed topples backwards, whacks his dumb ass on the floor, and the container lands with a crash that sounds like doom. Ed groans as he picks himself up, and again when he looks around at the mess that’s joined him on the ground.

There’s white crap _everywhere_. It grinds against Ed’s legs as he picks himself up, dusting himself off in disgust, because there are little plinking sounds coming from his automail, and he’s got salt in his mouth which is _gross_. Now he’s gonna have to sweep it all up, and his plans are all _ruined_. Why does the universe hate him? Now he can’t make any food that won’t be completely flavourless. He’ll have to run out to the shops or something. Why can’t his grand romantic plans be _easy_?

Footsteps come from down the hall. Shit. Ed starts to rush out of the kitchen—but there’s still salty crap all over the floor that he needs to clean up, but Roy Nosy Mustang is gonna look inside and then it’s just gonna stress him out even more—

“Ed? What’re you doing?”

He hurries to the door, swears and runs back to snag the cup of milk, and then rushes back. Mug in hand, Ed darts out of the kitchen, skidding on the tiles, and shuts their kitchen door _very_ quickly in front of a wet-haired, slightly more comfortable looking Roy Mustang. “You need blankets,” he decides, and Roy just blinks at him like…like Roy. Like confused, tired Roy, with a softness that gives him a humanity that Ed refused to see (and that Roy refused to _let_ him see) for so long. Soft, hurting Roy who just needs a lot of love and warmth, so Ed grabs Roy’s rough palm in his own to start dragging him into their living room.

“Blankets,” Ed repeats, “and that weird nature radio station you like.” He also needs to _not_ see the disaster of a salt pile that’s currently sitting in their kitchen.

“I—”

“Blankets!” Ed screeches. “Radio!”

“Is this you coddling me?” Roy asks, looking bemused, and Ed shoves the mug of milk into his free hand.

“No.” Absolutely, a thousand per cent yes. The yesest of yeses, actually. But Roy doesn’t need to know that. Roy needs to be pushed onto the couch and have his dumb blanket draped around him and arranged carefully around his shoulders so that it won’t slide off when he lifts his arms to drink his milk. Which is exactly what Ed does, before he turns away to heft their radio from where it sits in the corner of the room.

“Ah. Of course.” Blankets rustle behind Ed as he fiddles with the dials, and Roy clears his throat. “I really will be fine.”

“Yeah, cool, whatever,” Ed says absentmindedly, as he finally manages to get the radio to talk.

_And the Red-Crested Warbling Sparrow can be found only in the most humid parts of the Amestris climate, and is indeed a rare sight—_

Satisfied, Ed marches over to where Roy is perched on the couch, hands wrapped around his cow mug. “Roy Mustang,” Ed says, deadly serious. For the first time that night, Roy’s mouth twitches into a slight smirk.

“Yes, Edward Elric?”

_The bird’s young are vulnerable, and must be protected—_

His heart wants him to smile, but he pushes it down in the name of comedy. “I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against Roy’s, Roy’s dark eyes searching his own. “But if you leave this couch, you are dead.”

And on that note, he kisses Roy’s cheek, and walks away.

“Where are you going?” Roy calls, but Ed ignores him and just stomps into his boots.

_They are far too weak to be leaving the nest at these early stages, as their parents gather food. But these youngsters are demanding, with their distinctive screeches echoing in the forest until their parents return._

“Out. Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. Do _not_ leave that couch.” _And please don’t walk into the kitchen_. He’ll have to clean that up later, but right now he needs food. Food’s good to improve moods. Ed’s tried and tested that hypothesis plenty of times. Hopefully it works for Roy, and if Ed gets some food out of it too, well, he’s not complaining.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Roy’s anger and helplessness has given away to simple fatigue, but also something that’s a little gentler—almost comfortable tiredness, the familiarity of their home breeding safety. The radio drones on, soothing in the constant rise and fall of the speaker’s monologue. They’ve just moved on to the life cycle of bears when Roy hears the front door click open.

“Ed?”

Edward storms into the room, hunched over something inside his coat, and dripping wet.

“Fuckin’ torrential downpour,” he spits, hair flattened and looking _extremely_ bedraggled.

“I didn’t notice it raining,” Roy says, glancing out the window.

“That’s ‘cause it decided to confine its fucked-up stupidity to like, three blocks away, and _no where else_. Three blocks away, which was where I wanted to go. And ‘course it only started when I was like five minutes down the road. The universe hates me,” he concludes in disgust, and kicks off his boots.

“May I leave the couch yet? I can help you dry off.”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Ed says, still looking thoroughly miserable.

“Why on earth didn’t you try to use your jacket to cover your head at least?” Roy asks, letting the blanket fall away as he pads over. He trails one hand through a cold, soggy strand of Ed’s hair, and Ed leans into his touch. “You’re soaked.”

“Well, I had to protect this, didn’t I?” And then he whips out the package hidden inside his coat, and triumphantly slams it down on the table.

Roy hears something slosh around inside, Ed goes “oh, shit”, and then brown liquid starts staining the paper bag that Ed had just conjured.

“Ah, shit, shit, I shouldn’t have done that,” Ed says, distressed. “Let’s get this to the kitchen.” He grabs the package, cradling it in his hands in a poor attempt to stop the liquid from dripping, but then pauses abruptly. “Shit. Can’t do that either.”

“Ed, what’re you—”

Flustered Ed is adorable, and the glare that Ed rustles up in this state is weak. “You can’t yell at me, okay? I was trying to help, so you can’t yell at me.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t yell at you, just get this cleaned up,” Roy says hurriedly, because the liquid from whatever the hell Ed’s holding is threatening the cleanliness of their carpet. “I’m not sure what there is to yell at you for.”

Upon their arrival in the kitchen, Ed dumps his package on the table and proceeds to soak up the mess with a bunch of paper towels. He jerks his head in the direction of their stove. “That.”

Nothing seems wrong for a moment—and then Roy spots the white powder scattered all over the floor.

“Um, sugar?” he asks, stepping over gingerly.

“Salt,” Ed mutters. “Tried to yank down the box from the cupboard. Wasn’t—couldn’t reach.”

“Right.”

“…sorry.”

“No matter.” Walking over, he touches his hands together, and in no time blue light sparks and he has a solid block of salt in his hands. He deposits it in the upended container before returning to where Ed is glaring at him.

“An easy fix,” Roy says smoothly, and brushes his lips against Ed’s forehead to a grumble of “show-off”. “Now are you going to tell me what on earth was so important that you had to go running through a storm at quarter to nine?”

“Well, I figured that when I’ve had a shitty day, you usually feed me. So I, er, I tried to do that too,” he says, gesturing at the now-clean area next to their stove. “Didn’t really work out. I figured it’d take too long to clean up and that food probably isn’t the best when I can’t flavour it with all our salt all over the floor, so I went to that Xingese place you like and got you pork. You like that, right?”

Roy blinks.

When Roy came home, Ed was—and indeed, Ed is still—dressed in comfortable clothes for a night in: a simple shirt, loose pants, and hair out. It meant that he had been ready to unwind and go to sleep as he waited for Roy.

But instead, he went for a thirty minute trek, into the cold and apparently wet for…barbecued pork, by the smell of things.

Roy checks. It is.

It’s nothing more or less than food, and the scene is far too simple for Roy to be getting this emotional: Ed—still dripping wet—puttering around for cutlery, pouring a glass of water, and sliding out a chair at their dining table. The cracking open of the takeaway container shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat, the mundane clink of china bowls on their table top shouldn’t knock him so off kilter. But today has been so absolutely horrible that it’s that very simplicity—the decency of it all—that gets to him.

“I—ah, yes. I do,” Roy manages past the heart that’s lodged in his throat. Ed’s reaching over their kitchen counter, and doesn’t seem to notice that he’s all but made Roy’s heart explode into a thousand little lovestruck pieces. “Th-thank you.”

Speechless, helpless, all he can do is wrap his arms around Ed—still soaked— from behind. It’s wonderful—again, _so_ beautiful in how simple it is—to hold him tight, ignoring Ed’s yelp and desperate attempts not to drop the fork he’s holding.

“Roy, geeze, I’m soaked. You just washed, you shouldn’t get wet again.”

Pressing his fingertips together, Roy spreads his hands over the front of Ed’s coat as blue flashes, and then steam is rising from the both of them as the water is drawn away. Beneath his hands—settled over Ed’s heart—Roy feels the rise and fall of Ed’s rib cage as he heaves a sigh.

“I guess that works, too,” Ed grumbles, before turning around. “You okay?” he asks quietly, and this time, Roy nods.

“Much better,” he says, equally quiet. There’s something about the moment that resolutely forces Roy to slow down and breathe. Perhaps it is something about Edward Elric that demands gentleness. Perhaps it is that when a golden-haired idol sets his sights on you, and saves your life as he has done so many others, there is nothing one can do other than yield, and it is nothing but a disservice to the goodness in the world if Roy doesn’t take heed.

“You—” He hesitates, because he’s not sure how he can say all of this. He’s not sure how he ended up so lucky. Yet the words grow within Roy’s heart, and ease their way into the night air. As gentle, and as inevitable, as blooms in Spring.

“You—you are every piece and part of me that I didn’t know I would ever see again. You are everything in me that I wish I had the courage to be.” Softness, weakness, and love. “I don’t—I don’t know if I can convey how much this means to me. How much _you_ mean to me.”

The tips of Ed’s fingers trace magic across Roy’s cheek, and the breath he draws before he speaks is a miracle. “I think I get it, if it’s anythin’ close to what I feel about you. You’re…you’re everything about this world that I want to protect.” Ed swallows, and smiles so gently. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.” And then he butts his head against Roy’s. “Your food’s getting’ cold.”

Maybe it is.

“One last thing,” Roy says. Slowly, he leans down, and feels his heart settle for the first time that night with the soft love of Ed’s lips against his.

There is peace that they have created for themselves. Love, and home, and life. Belonging, and being found. All that and something more amongst the clinking of utensils, the gentle creak of the wind pressing against their back door, and Ed’s laughter—tired and fond—shifting into Roy’s breath as he meets Roy halfway.

And _that_ , for Roy, is more than warmth enough to last the rest of his life.


End file.
